


Battle Jackets & Band-Aids

by OrangePatrick



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Light smoking and drinking, M/M, Mentions of blood and bruising, Punk Rock, Slice of Life, Swearing, WinterHawk Big Bang, punks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangePatrick/pseuds/OrangePatrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is very punk rock, thank you very much. He has two crust vests, he can’t see his bedroom floor, and his partner-in-crime wears enough eyeliner to be a stand-in for a My Chemical Romance music video.</p><p>Bucky Barnes is a very exhausted punk-- who can blame him, having to deal with Clint Barton for, what, five years straight? Mostly he just wants to hold Clint’s hand and for scrawny teenagers to stop throwing themselves face-first into mosh pits.</p><p>    (a slice-of-life fic dipping into the lives of punk boy[friend]s Clint Barton and Bucky Barnes, spanning over a decade of being Certifiably Punk Rock. (No, Clint, you cannot trade-mark that.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pink Triangle - Weezer (17yo Clint, 19yo Bucky)

**Author's Note:**

> okay so the WHBB was super fun and i rlly wanted to do something lighthearted for our sniper boys  
> lots of love to my artist @draw-your-l1fe on tumblr!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (punk boy[friend]s who help each other with their patches and jackets)

“Do you listen to anything _besides_ ‘Red Room?’” Bucky asks with an eyeroll as he shoves his way into the messy bedroom, kicking past heaps of dirty (clean? those look folded, but he’s not really sure) laundry with his black boots.

 

Clint looks up from where he sits cross-legged on his bed, comforter pulled up tight around him as he works on stitching a new patch onto his battle jacket, and dials up his aids slightly while turning down the stereo. “Um, yes. But also: Natasha is amazing, so why would I ever _want_ to listen to anything besides ‘Red Room?’ It’s Black Widow’s best EP yet and the quality is significantly better than a lot of bands on the scene anyway.”

 

“Don’t be such a pretentious asshole. You’re just a slut for Nat’s basslines,” Bucky snorts, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed. Unfortunately, Clint is just clumsy enough to, despite Bucky’s caution, manage to stab himself with the needle at the sudden dip.

 

“Aw, needle, no,” he mutters, quickly sucking the beading blood from his fingertip. Usually being poked by stitching needles doesn’t draw blood, but every once in awhile they’ll hit the right spot. While getting his vest bloody would certainly fit Clint’s particular brand of punk, he really doesn’t want it on his newest patch. “I always do it, too, jeez. Go get me a band-aid?”

 

Instead, Bucky reaches over and grabs Clint’s hand, gently turning it to see the pocket of white skin where the needle caught. “It’s not bleeding anymore. I don’t think you need one.”

 

A soft noise of annoyance slips from Clint’s throat as he rolls his eyes. It would help stop him from poking himself again, whether he’s still bleeding or not. “You just don’t wanna get back up,” he accuses, hand still being gently cradled by Bucky’s own.

 

“You too soft to handle an embroidery needle?” Bucky fires back, eyebrow raised in a challenge.

 

Clint scowls and yanks his hand back, huddling further under his comforter, sounding like a petulant child when he grumbles a short “no. Fuck you.”

 

Shaking his head, Bucky picks up the needle and vest. He takes just a moment to figure out the stitching before finishing the last side of the patch. When it’s secure, he ties off the thread and cuts it with his teeth and holds it up for inspection. The new patch is Black Widow’s logo, positioned just above a larger Minor Threat patch. There are almost no bare spots left, just a small space on the front left side above a field of buttons. “What’re you gonna put here? Or do you know yet?”

 

Clint looks at where Bucky is pointing at and shrugs. “I have a couple ideas, but I guess I haven’t settled on anything yet.” It’s not a complete lie, at least. Clint _has_ had a handful of ideas for new patches, but he’s known what to put over his heart since he started the vest.

 

“Can’t think of any other bands you’ve missed,” Bucky laughs, examining the array of buttons and homemade patches.

 

Biting his lip, Clint finally admits, “I was, uh. I'm actually gonna put a pink triangle there.”

 

Bucky looks up, surprised. “That’s-- that’s awesome, dude. Really?”

 

Clint shrugs again. “I think so. I don’t think my foster dad knows what it means, so I feel safe enough using it, I guess? And it’s something that I… I really want to put there.”

 

He didn’t really have to come out to Bucky; they had always just kind of _known_ when it came to sexuality. Bucky was somewhere on the spectrum of bi- and pansexual, as far as Clint was aware, having been with partners of various genders over the past few years. Clint, on the other hand, was just very, very gay. The punk scene was supposed to be a safe place for any kind of misfit, including orientation-wise. He hadn’t really ever thought about how anyone would react to spotting it on his vest-- no one’s opinions mattered, anyway. Except for Bucky’s. (And Nat’s. Nat’s opinion always mattered.)

 

The smile that Bucky gives him could probably cure cancer. “That’s cool. Proud of you.”

 

“Thanks.” Clint returns the smile, offering a wing of his comforter. “You wanna watch Netflix or something, or did you come over with a mission _besides_ finishing my patch for me?”

 

“Netflix sounds good. Where’s your laptop?”

 

They curl up together, pretending like Bucky isn’t tracing circles in Clint’s arm, like Clint isn’t leaning his full weight into Bucky’s warm side. Moments like these are the most comfortable Clint ever feels anymore: safe, quiet, still.

 

He falls asleep about four episodes into _Jessica Jones,_ Bucky still tracing circles on his skin.

  
Bucky smiles and gently removes Clint’s hearing aids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was art for this chapter, but alas, ao3 wants an online source and i was only emailed the files!  
> for now, the art is my eyes only, i suppose ;D


	2. Back Up Against The Wall - Rancid (16yo Clint, 18yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (punk boy[friend]s who stand in the back/side of shows with their arms crossed)

Clint glances over at Bucky, who stands with his arms crossed, lips quirked down in a slight frown. He returns the look, raising an eyebrow at Clint, who shrugs slightly before turning his attention back to the tiny stage.

 

It’s a shitty venue, some little bar off the interstate. The ceilings are easily only 10 feet high-- measuring generously-- and the stage is shoved in the corner opposite the bar. There’s almost no room to move but for a very,  _ very _ thin strip of space between the bar’s seats and the pit of the crowd. Bucky hates how stuffy the place is, while Clint loathes the low visibility and awful sound system. He always takes out his hearing aids when they go to shows in favor of ear plugs of various calibers, but at a good venue he’d still be able to distinguish instruments and songs. Here, though, the sound is muddy and runs together.

 

The band would be decent enough if they had chosen a good venue. Plus, Clint had had to pay a $10 minor fee so like hell they’re going to bail after three songs. He glances over to the bar, but the very thought of having to push through the crowd made his skin crawl. They’re on the opposite wall from it, not quite crushed by other people but too far away to get there comfortably.

 

“Hey,” Bucky says, lips brushing Clint’s ear. “Do you wanna go get drinks?”

 

Clint turns to look at him and shrugs helplessly.  _ <Sign?> _

 

Bucky’s grasp on sign language is shaky at best; the poor lighting and occasional shoving doesn’t help. But it’s easy enough to both sign and read,  _ <Thirsty?> _

 

_ <Yes.> _ Clint hesitates, then adds,  _ <Crowd.> _

 

Bucky lifts the corner of his mouth and laces their fingers together, giving Clint’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I got you,” he says slowly, letting Clint read his lips. Even if he didn’t catch it, Clint understands the gesture and squeezes Bucky’s hand back, returning the smile.

 

Clint is tall, a bit over six foot; Bucky, while only five-foot-nine, is bulky enough that people move when he makes room with his shoulders. Clint just has to keep ahold of his hand and stick close to his back. They stumble out of the edge of the crowd and almost immediately get pushed up against the bar. Clint pushes his face into the space between Bucky’s shoulder blades while Bucky gets them whatever. Clint doesn’t care. He’s got a headache at this point, to be honest. But his fingers are still laced with Bucky’s, and that’s all that really matters. Until a drink is pushed into his hand-- it’s fizzy, some kind of cola-looking soda. A tentative drink reveals it to be Dr. Pepper.

 

Clint goes to sign ‘thank you,’ but realizes both his hands are occupied, so he just says it, hoping Bucky can hear him. He receives a hand squeeze in reply; satisfied, he quickly drains the soda and starts searching for a trash can. Bucky gives his hand a short tug and nods towards the door. Clint nods, so they escape into the night.

 

It’s not even midnight yet. Bummer.

 

When they climb into Bucky’s car, he absently reaches back for Clint’s hand. Surprised, the blond accepts the gesture, linking their fingers once more. They sit like that for the rest of the drive back to the Barnes household.

 

“At least buy me dinner before taking me home,” Clint jokes, refitting his aids.

 

Bucky snorts. “Hey, I bought you a drink!”

 

“Shit. You right, you right. Guess you can have your way with me now.”

 

It’s a half-serious joke that neither of them quite fully acknowledge save for nervous laughter that dispels into the night sky.

 

“Shut up and come inside. I’m not letting you sleep in my car again.”

 

“It was  _ one time, _ James!  _ One time!” _

  
Bucky smiles, fondly shaking his head.


	3. The Anthem - Good Charlotte (18yo Clint, 20yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (punk boy[friend]s who will bump shoulders or simultaneously start nodding along to catchy songs of bands new to the scene)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! started adding chapter summaries (i.e., the prompt from my Punk Boy[Friend] Things list that'll get published after this is done) so idk if you wanna go back and read any notes/summaries or just jump straight into this new part.  
> much thanks to my artist @draw-your-l1fe on tumblr!

The band is new, a modern pop punk band opening for Black Widow. They’ve got a catchy bubblegum sound that Clint can’t quite resist, absently tapping his foot along to the beat. He kind of wants to buy their shitty homemade CD, but also he’s at the show with Bucky and he doesn’t want to get the Judging You look that Bucky’s really good at.

 

But then Clint notices something. Something monumental. Something extraordinary.

 

Bucky is  _ also  _ nodding along!

 

Clint can’t help but grin and bump against Bucky’s shoulder; in return, the brunet sends Clint a scowl but doesn’t stop subtly moving his head.

 

“Okay everybody,” the co-lead singer yells into the mic in his nasally voice, “I want everyone to jump when I say ‘jump,’ okay?!”

 

Clint’s grin widens as he bumps his shoulder harder against Bucky’s.  _ Participate! _

 

The singer begins a rapid countdown as the drumline begins to escalate in intensity, shouting “jump!” just as the guitars come wailing back in a crescendo.

 

They both do, bumping into each other and stepping on toes as the crowd all moves up and down together. At some point, Bucky reaches for Clint’s hand; Clint returns the grasp, lacing their fingers so that they don’t drift too far from each other as they jump and sway to the song.

 

At some point, Clint starts laughing, immersed in the experience. Bucky takes one look at the swaying, lanky blond beside him and starts laughing too. He tugs Clint closer, and Clint leans against him heavily, breathing hard. It’s hard to keep up a “rough and tumble Punk Rocker” exterior during a bubblegum pop punk set, especially since at most shows all they ever do is headbang.

 

“All I’m saying,” Clint argues in the quiet between bands tearing down and setting up, “is that we should go to more pop punk shows. Even the new-wave stuff.”

 

Bucky just rolls his eyes.

 

“Hear me out, dude! Okay, first of all, half the shit we listen to is pop punk anyway, so you can’t even pretend like you don’t listen to any of it, and secondly, pop punk shows are way more fun than progressive metal, anyway. Everyone at those shows just stands around and looks angry.” At Bucky’s unimpressed eyebrow-lift, Clint adds, “I mean, that’s kind of what you’re good at anyway, but--”

 

Bucky lovingly punches Clint’s arm. “Shut up. We’ll go to any shows we want to. You wanna go more new-wave pop punk? Fine by me.”

 

Clint fist-pumps. “You can only pretend that you hate it for so long, Barnes.”

 

“Black Widow is about to go on,” Bucky mentions, abruptly changing the subject with a nod towards the stage, where Peggy is pulling her guitar strap over her head and Wanda is settling down behind the drums.

 

Clint’s eyes light up like they do every time he sees the femme fatale band live. “The punk scene needs more ladies running it,” he decides aloud, to which Bucky nods.

  
“Hell yeah it does.”


	4. Best Thing In Town - Green Day (16yo Clint, 18yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (punk boy[friend]s who share CDs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter i've been excited for since i started. it's also what part of the Fic Summary references!

“I’m having a crisis,” Clint says, planting his hands on his hips and wobbling dangerously on his bed, his spiked hair just barely poking his ceiling.

 

Bucky casually leans against the doorframe of Clint’s bedroom, a lazy smirk lifting his lips. “What level of crisis?”

 

“Code red, definitely.” Then he frowns. “Okay, maybe code orange. Or purple. I can’t really remember all our crisis codes, to be honest. Is red bad? Because this situation is officially--” his tone changes to emphasize-- “A Crisis™.”

 

“You can’t just trade-mark things for emphasis, Clint.”

 

“Fuck you, Barnes. I’ll trade-mark anything I want. You’re distracting me from The Crisis, too!”

 

“Fine, whatever. What’s the code red crisis that you’re having?”

 

Clint steeples his fingers, presses them to his lips, and inhales deeply. “I… have lost…  _ American Idiot.” _

 

“Sorry, what year is it?” Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes but starting to kick around piles of dirty laundry on Clint’s floor in a fruitless search for the missing CD. “Maybe-- and this may be way out of line for me to say-- but maybe, just maybe… you would find it if you cleaned up your fucking floor.”

 

As expected, Clint looks absolutely scandalized, entire body expressive of his absolute horror at the suggestion. “Are you trying to  _ ruin  _ my aesthetic? My reputation? My  _ lifestyle?!” _

 

“At this point, it’s not a lifestyle. It’s a disaster,” Bucky points out.

 

“Fuck you, Barnes!”

 

“Do you want my help or not?”

 

They shuffle around quietly for a few minutes, neither of them completely dedicated to overturning Clint’s entire bedroom. Then it hits Bucky-- the CD is still in his car’s changer, its case in his glove box. They were listening to it on their way to the last concert they went to. He looks up to tell Clint this, but pauses as Clint sighs dramatically and falls flat onto his mattress.

 

“It’s a lost cause. It’s gone forever. I’m condemned to a wasteland of a life, barred from the sweet melodies of Billie Joe, forever struggling to remember the clarity and beauty of Tre Cool’s drumming, of Mike’s basslines--”

 

Distracted from his original train of thought, Bucky shakes his head. “You seriously know all the band members? Really?”

 

“Stop judging me! Green Day is a  _ quality  _ band, you entitled asshole!”

 

“Okay, but don’t you have all their other CDs too? Why is losing this one such a Crisis?” Bucky asks, emphasizing the Crisis to play along with Clint’s earlier inflections.

 

Clint sits up immediately. “Uh, my dear James, are you really asking me to compare ‘American Idiot’ to its sibling albums? Because we can discuss this for seven days straight and the topic will not be exhausted. ‘American Idiot’ is just-- special, okay?” Quietly, he adds, “It was my first CD, man. Help me find it.”

 

At that, Bucky’s shoulders slump in sympathy. “Dude, it’s just still in my car. Do you want me to go get it?”

 

“Holy shit, really?” Clint gapes, immediately getting up. “Yes, dude, let’s go get it.”

 

When they reach Bucky’s car, Clint eagerly finds the case while Bucky ejects the CD.

 

“See, no worries,” Bucky says, handing over the disc. “It was safe and sound.”

 

Clint kisses Bucky’s cheek with an exaggerated  _ smack  _ and a “James Buchanan Barnes, you are the love of my life!” before rushing back into the house to return ‘American Idiot’ to its proper place in his CD rack.

 

Bucky takes a moment, blinking several times and slowly wiping off Clint’s gross spit from his cheek. With a wry smile, he cuts the car engine and follows the blond inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how 2009 of me, to have songs as the chapter titles. but! it's a punk AU so i mean. whatever.  
> i'm gonna try to get this finished/uploaded by the end of the week but i'm working a ton and school is a cesspool of Death(TM) so.  
> but i've got it almost 100% already written, it's just a matter of uploading the pieces.  
> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are much appreciated<3  
> (also bookmarks. you bookmarkers and whenever you tag things in your bookmarks. i love them.)


	5. Architects - Rise Against (21yo Clint, 23yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (punk boy[friend]s who stand on the back patios of venues and share cigarettes)  
> (punk boy[friend]s who buy each other drinks)

“What do you want?” Bucky asks, mouth close to Clint’s ear.

 

Clint shrugs noncommittally and replies, “Whatever you’re getting, I guess?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes but accepts the response, leaning up against the bar while a bartender makes her way over to him.

 

“What can I get for ya, sweetheart?” she asks, leaning up next to him.

 

Bucky glances over to where Clint is hovering just a foot away and can’t stop the little smile that forms at the sight. “Just two Buds should be fine.”

 

“You got your wristband?”

 

He holds up his arm, showing off the ugly neon yellow band that he’d been given upon entering the venue.

 

The bartender raises an eyebrow at Clint. “Your boyfriend got one, too?”

 

Bucky blinks. “Oh, um, yeah, he-- Dude, show her your wristband,” he says, reaching for Clint.

 

Clint blinks owlishly and holds up his left arm.

 

“He looks like he’s sixteen,” the bartender teases as she fills up the clear plastic cups.

 

Bucky snorts. “He always has.”

 

“Cute, though,” she adds passively, handing him their drinks. “Have a fun night!”

 

The two push their way onto the back deck of the venue, drinks in hand. Bucky sets his drink on the deck while he digs into his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, preoccupied by what the bartender had said. He’s known Clint for, shit, six years now? Seven? He thinks back to when Clint was sixteen, the walking disaster too invested into Natasha Romanoff’s homemade CDs, curling up together around a shitty laptop watching  _ Jessica Jones _ and  _ Dog Cops _ and--

 

Bucky looks to Clint for a lighter.

 

\--and now they’re sharing an apartment, and he’s twenty-three and Clint is twenty-one and neither of them know what they’re doing yet-- _ still--  _ but it’s okay, because they’ve got a dog and two foster cats and both are working almost full-time, so the bills get paid just fine--

 

Bucky coughs up a lungful of smoke, eyes watering like it’s the first time he’s ever taken a drag.

 

“You okay?” Clint laughs, slapping him on the back.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles, passing the cigarette to the blond.  _ When did we get so domestic?  _ he kind of wants to ask, but he gets lost in the way Clint’s eyelashes curl as he closes his eyes and takes a drag, so instead he just takes a long pull from his beer and stares out into the parking lot. The stars are completely invisible from smog and light pollution. Someone’s car alarm starts going off as a group leaving the venue weaves between the vehicles. Inside, overpowering drums shake the venue walls. Other smokers are crowding the patio, a couple is making out just a dozen feet away, pressed up against the railing, and everything is kind of sweaty and Bucky feels really really gross, actually.

 

But then Clint taps his hand, deftly handing back the cigarette. Bucky snubs it against the rough wood rail and finishes off his beer., and Clint slouches against him a little bit, and there’s nothing in the sky to look at except for a smudge of a moon, so they stare at it like they’re searching for constellations-- Clint has little faint freckles across his shoulders, Bucky knows, little constellations he can make with his eyes-- and it isn’t at all cliche or romantic, because of all the aforementioned gross, sticky, sweaty Local Venue Things--

 

but it’s perfect, because it’s their life.

 

And Bucky is twenty-three and he thinks,  _ fuck, I could be right here for the rest of my life. _

 

Clint smiles at him like he’s thinking it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this one so much. domestic fluff is my jam.


	6. Give Me One Good Reason - blink-182

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (punk boy[friend]s who help out new kids on the scene)

“Did you see that kid just go down?” Bucky gasps, rolling up onto his toes to see better.

 

Clint frowns and turns his attention from the band toward where Bucky is looking. There’s obviously some kind of pit formed, a nonstop whirlwind of movement set to the screaming guitar riffs and hammering drumlines. “What kid?”

 

“Some scrawny kid, looked like he was fifteen. C’mon.” Bucky starts shoving forwards and Clint helplessly follows.

 

There is a very good reason that Clint avoids mosh pits like they’re the plague of punk shows-- they are. And at outdoor venues, pits can get  _ huge. _ For the most part, people don’t get too seriously injured, but Clint has witnessed a broken arm or two and definitely more than one case of broken ribs. While he’s fine with the occasional elbow-to-the-face or otherwise broken nose, Clint really doesn’t fancy the idea of potential lung punctures.

 

Yet here he is, willingly dodging body-sized bullets to help Bucky drag some itty bitty  _ child _ off the floor. Call him selfish-- he’ll be less whiny about it once they’re out of the pit.

 

The kid’s sporting some pretty impressive bruises along the side of his face, lip split, nose bloody. “Are you okay?” Bucky yells over the pounding bassline.

 

The kid nods rapidly, stumbling a little bit. “I’m good, I’m good!”

 

“Stay out of the pit,” Clint suggests, somewhat unhelpfully at this point.

 

A sudden wave of shoving sends them all forward; Bucky reaches out and grabs Clint’s hand as they both start shoving back against the crowd. The bloody kid is lost once again in the crowd, but Clint has already spotted another kid that might need a hand-- a thirteen-year-old girl struggling to keep on her feet. He tugs on Bucky’s hand, so Bucky helps him weave over to the petite teenager.

 

“You doing okay?” Clint shouts, putting a hand on her elbow to steady her.

 

“This is awesome!” she shouts back, grin splitting her face. “Thanks for the hand-- hey, can you help lift me up?”

 

Clint nods and lets go of Bucky’s hand, getting low and grabbing her around the waist. “Have you ever done this before?”

 

She laughs again, the sound not audible over the music spilling from the amps. “Never!”

 

With Bucky’s hands supporting her back and shoulders, Clint hoists her off the ground and shouts, “Have fun!” before they hand her off to the crowd. As small as she is, everyone eagerly helps guide her to the barrier, where security will help her back to her feet and send her on her way.

 

Sure enough, only a few minutes later she’s back, dark hair wild. “Again?”

 

Clint snorts but steps forward to help her up again. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

 

“Kate.”

 

“Well, Kate, don’t get dropped.”

 

With a whoop and holler, Kate leaves Clint’s hands and into the eager crowd.

 

“How much you wanna bet that this is her first concert?” Bucky laughs, shifting his feet so that his shoulder presses tight against Clint’s.

 

“Oh, it definitely is,” the blond grins.

 

“Hope that kid from the pit is doing alright.”

 

“I’m sure he’s fine. New kids are crazy. Remember when Steve went to that one festival with us, and he totally almost got into like, seven fights?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes at the memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok life has been stressful af, i'm sorry that this wasn't 100% ready-to-go by the list date, but it'll get there!  
> thanks for reading,  
> comments + kudos appreciated!


	7. With Me - Sum 41 (20yo Clint, 22yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> punk boy[friend]s who go to farmers markets together

Bucky pulls into the dusty gravel parking lot slowly, trying to avoid hitting anybody that blatantly walks in front of his fucking bumper--  _ literally, the car is like twelve inches away, do they not see it, or?-- _ while simultaneously looking for a vaguely parking-spot-looking parking spot. “Hey, Eyes, help me look for a parking spot.”

 

Clint looks up from his phone and barely takes half a second to sweep the parking lot before saying, “Third row, two from your left, unless that soccer mom van gets there first. The next one is in the fifth row, there’s a handful of them back there.”

 

Bucky almost gets into a fight with a soccer mom. But it’s okay. He gets the parking spot.

 

Clint’s jacket clanks with moving pins and buttons when he gets out of the car, passing a hand through his freshly-dyed purple hair as he stretches. “I feel like I haven’t been up before noon in a decade,” he comments as they amble towards the venders.

 

“Yeah, you probably haven’t,” Bucky snorts, pausing to look at a large display of stone-carved animals. The smaller ones are marked for five dollars while the largest of the bunch rocket well over a hundred. Clint pokes his chin into Bucky’s shoulder while they take a moment to sweep their eyes over the art before casually moving on.

 

The best part about farmer’s markets, in Clint’s opinion, is the fact that everyone brings their dogs. Lucky was still asleep in front of the TV when Clint and Bucky had left that morning, so he was really missing out on some quality sniffing around. Bucky loops around each of the stalls twice in the span of time it takes Clint to finish petting a beagle to get distracted by a corgi, and then a German shepherd, and then a boarder collie, and a Dachshund--

 

“Lucky’s gonna be jealous when he finds out that you’ve been petting other dogs,” Bucky teases as Clint finally pulls himself away from a chocolate lab.

 

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Clint dismisses it, an easy smile sloping his lips. “Besides, the smell’ll wear off before we get back home. Probably. Hopefully.”

 

Bucky hums. “Oh, hey, one of the stalls is selling sweet corn. You want some for dinner this week?”

 

“I will eat anything cooked by you,” Clint declares dramatically (and very seriously). Bucky takes that as a yes.

 

Clint talks him into getting a jar of homemade honey because the elderly man selling it had a small hoard of friendly bees buzzing around his stall; Bucky coaxes Clint into trying a woman’s sample of cooked okra. They go around in circles discussing whether or not Bucky can possibly make asparagus taste good, but then Bucky gives up and figures it's not worth the fight. (He'll get some when he's shopping without Clint.)

 

“You ready to go?” Bucky asks, three plastic bags hooked to one arm while he searches his pockets for the car keys.

 

“Yes-- wait, no-- I'll be right there, you can go to the car--”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes and walks off, positive that Clint just needs to pet a few more dogs before he's ready to leave.

 

Clint hops into the front seat with loudly clanking vest buttons. It takes Bucky a second to realize what Clint has in his hand.

 

“For you!” Clint grins, offering up the small bouquet. “Well. For our apartment, I guess, since we live together. Nat thinks we need more color anyway, and I think Steve would count it as making the place more homey or whatever.”

 

Bucky blinks at the bundle-- lavender, forget-me-nots, daisies, lily-of-the-valleys. Small, detailed things. “Thanks, Barton. I love ‘em,” he smiles, leaning across the consul to smack a kiss on Clint’s cheek.

  
Then he shifts the car into gear and starts navigating his way out of the poorly-structured helltrap of a parking lot--  _ literally people do you not see this bigass car? Get out of the damn way-- _


	8. You're Gonna Go Far, Kid - The Offspring (18yo Clint, 20yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> punk boy[friend]s that go to animal shelters and walk dogs together

Clint signs his name with a flourish on the volunteer sign-in. It’s a small place, too small for the amount of rescues that they take in, too small to pay every single person willing to help out, so Clint enjoys the days he spends volunteering. The dogs are all adorable-- save the occasional asshole or two, as can happen in animal shelters-- and Clint loves them all.

 

“So what’re we doing today?” Bucky asks as they walk back to the dog kennels. “Just walking ‘em?”

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Clint shrugs, grabbing a few leashes off their hooks. “Try to pick ones that haven’t already been marked off on their whiteboards.”

 

Bucky walks down the line of kennels with sweeping eyes. A lot of the dogs are resting, curled up in the backs of their beds and barely looking back when he passes by. The shelter has always seemed sad to Bucky, a little hopeless, almost too quiet, almost depressing in the way that little sighs echo off cement floors. But it does make sense why Clint loves it: he’s always been the kind of person to want to help out, to see something that looks broken and find the good in it anyway. Compassion is a second-nature thing for Clint, and it’s one of his many character traits that pulled Bucky in and made him never want to let go.

 

At the end of the row, a roughed-up mutt sits up close to his cage bars, thumping his golden tail when Bucky looks his way.

 

Bucky grins when he looks at the kennel’s whiteboard. “Lucky, huh? I think Clint is gonna love you.”

 

Sure enough, as soon as his eyes land on Lucky, Clint is sold.

 

“I think I’m in love with this dog,” Clint says, the one-eyed mutt wagging his tail in excitement. “Look at how pure he is. So good, so happy. I love him.”

  
Bucky shoots Lucky a glance that says, plain and simple,  _ Okay, but remember: he was mine first. _


	9. My Favorite Color - Citizen (15yo Clint, 17yo Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> punk boy[friend]s dying each other's hair

“Are you sure this is how we’re supposed to be doing this?” Bucky asks uncertainly.

 

“You’re the one looking at the box,” Clint points out, reaching for the instruction sheet.

 

“I just feel like there are usually more steps to it than this,” Bucky defends, handing over the instructions. “My mom dyes her hair sometimes and usually it takes a solid hour or so for everything.”

 

“But this is only semi-permanent,” Clint tells him. “So we just leave it in for half an hour, rinse my head, and boom! My hair is fucking  _ purple!” _

 

Bucky snorts and continues massaging the ridiculous color into Clint’s scalp, then tells Clint as much: “This is a ridiculous color.”

 

“Uhm, no, it’s  _ punk _ as _ fuck.” _

 

“Oh, right, totally, my bad.”

 

Clint closes his eyes and relaxes into Bucky’s touch, enjoying the feeling of his hair being played with. It’s getting long, almost long enough for him to put it in a fohawk, so he decided it was time to do something new with it-- hence the purple.

 

Also, it was kind of a “fuck you” to his foster dad that just so happened to come with the plus side of having Bucky massaging his scalp.

 

“I think I’m getting some of this on your forehead, fuck--”

 

“Don’t worry about it, man, it’s not like people don’t already know that purple isn’t my natural hair color.”

 

“Well, yeah, but--”

 

“James. Jimmy. Bro. Dude. Buddy.”

 

“Please stop.”

 

“Thank you for doing this.”

 

“Shut up and stick your head in the sink.”

 

“Oooh,  _ bossy--”  _ Clint’s head is forcibly pushed under the sink faucet, effectively silencing him for the entire few minutes that Bucky rinses out the purple dye.

 

“This is gonna stain my sink,” he complains, watching the purple bleed from Clint’s hair.

  
Clint just laughs, then promptly coughs on water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh i should be done w this im so sorry. procrastinating on nanowrimo by doing this lol


	10. Follow You - Bring Me The Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> punk fiances

Clint is 24 and lying on the floor cuddling with Lucky when it happens.

 

Bucky is 26 and up on the couch, with one of the foster cats (a fluffy, touchy old man of a cat affectionately named Whiskers) when it happens.

 

They’re watching House Hunters and making fun of all the unhappy straight married couples that don’t seem to agree on anything, both wanting such vastly different things in life. The man wants an oversized master bedroom and 3-car garage; the woman wants a finished basement and a modern kitchen. Clint has a “Stereotype Bingo” card next to him, and Bucky is occasionally mentioning the things written on the squares so that Clint marks them down.

 

“I don’t know how people can’t talk about these things before they get married,” Clint huffs, rolling his eyes.

 

Bucky laughs that soft snort of his and shakes his head. “We could do better.”

 

“Hell yeah.”

 

They switch to Dog Cops before the episode is even over.

* * *

 

Bucky is 26 and thinking that he’s probably old enough to get married, but for some reason 24-year-old Clint seems too young.

 

Clint is 24 and thinking that he’s never felt more at home than here, on the floor with his foster dog, his best friend/soulmate sitting on the couch just a few feet away. (He’s not thinking about when, exactly, he started labelling Bucky as his ‘soulmate,’ but he can’t think of any other word for how easy everything is between them, how comfortable, how important and real.)

* * *

 

Bucky is 27 and frosting a ‘25’ onto a Funfetti cake, homebaked for his best friend. Lucky is giving him a pouty eye. Whiskers is glaring from the couch. Bucky thinks that maybe, this year, he’ll figure out how to ask.

 

Clint is 25 and still stuffing his face with Funfetti like he’s only 5, and no one makes him happy the same way Bucky does. (Nat is a different kind of happy. An important kind of happy, but a best-friends-forever kind of happy that isn’t quite the same as the soulmates-forever kind of happy.)

On Bucky’s 28th birthday, Clint buys him a triple-chocolate cake and they spend the day in Central Park. Bucky loves the taste of spring settling in the air, the way the sun feels against his skin.

 

Clint casually slips his hand into his pocket, feels the box there. He’s not sure when he’ll do it, but he wants it to be soon.

* * *

 

It’s Christmas Eve. Clint is 26, Bucky is 28, they’ve been living in the same apartment for seven years, they have a dog and two foster cats, and they have never been on a date. But they have been to hundreds of shows together, been sharing a bed since Clint first spent the night when they were teenagers, know each other better than themselves, do everything together, split groceries and go to fairs and Coney Island together and usually spend Christmases at the Barnes household and are hopelessly, deeply, unabashedly in love with each other.

 

It’s Christmas Eve. Clint has been holding onto a ring for nine months. Bucky has been holding onto a ring for just about, almost, two years. This year, instead of going over to Bucky’s mom’s house, they opted to stay at the apartment, snowed in and drinking cocoa and watching sappy Hallmark movies under piles of blankets to fight the chill.

 

“I know we weren’t gonna really do gifts this year,” Bucky starts, setting down his hot chocolate and sitting up. “But--”

 

Clint panics, thinks of the little black box tucked deep into his closet, and says “Don’t worry, I did too. I just need to--”

 

Bucky, not sure if his courage will hold out for another five minutes, helps Clint struggle out from under their blanket pile and watches him rush into their room.

 

When Clint comes back, fiddling with a small box, Bucky’s stomach drops with swooping butterflies. When Clint finally makes eye contact after nervously glancing around the room for several seconds, Bucky sheepishly holds up the little box of his own.

 

After a beat of stunned silence, they both burst into nervous, then relieved, laughter. Lucky thumps his tail at their joy.

 

“I’m kind of in love with you,” Bucky says right as Clint is saying, “You’re kind of my soulmate.”

 

The thing with engagement rings is, unless for some reason you already know your partner’s ring size, you probably didn’t get them one that fits perfectly. The one on Clint’s finger is a smidge too big, sliding around every time he moves; Bucky can’t quite get his on, a few sizes too small, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the concept, not the actual rings themselves.

 

“Hey,” Bucky mumbles, pulling Clint closer and cradling his jaw. “I think this is a decade late.”

  
“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Clint breathes, tilting his head down and fitting their mouths together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u know what else is a decade late? this fucking update sorry.  
> BUT thank u to everyone still keeping up!! I have loved working on this fic and adding some fluff and domesticity to this pairing. All the comments and kudos have been supportive and wonderful. Thank you for being wonderful readers.


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